


Hallefuckinglujah

by lactoria



Category: Trigun
Genre: M/M, Wing Kink, top!Vash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:59:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6769693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lactoria/pseuds/lactoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell, his wings are flared out and arched and by all rights you should be saying your prayers, but Vash is the most humble alien-god-thing you’ve never met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hallefuckinglujah

“ _Ah–”_

Vash.  Beautiful, idiotic, enigmatic creature.  Human in design, but not human at all.

Oh no.  He’s far better.

He’s angelic–or at least, that’s the closest comparison you’ve got.

“ _Wolfwood…”_  

But _goddamn_ does he sound like an angel when he’s singing for you.  And these ridiculous wings aren’t doing anything to convince you otherwise. 

If he were really an angel you would be feeling downright despicable for what you’re doing to him.

“Aw fuck, Tongari–”

Or maybe it’s what he’s doing to _you_.

This isn’t exactly how you pictured your first time with him, but Vash is nothing if not a bombshell of caprice.  He’s just one surprise after another, a living contradiction that always keeps you guessing.

Like how he’s moaning like _he’s_  the one getting fucked even though his cock is lodged up your ass.  You’re wedged between him and the wall–completely naked save for your half-unbuttoned shirt whereas he is completely clothed save for his pants twisted down somewhere around his knees.  And for all of Vash’s intensity, all of his dominance over this situation, he _still_  acts like he’s small, vulnerable, unassuming.  Hell, his wings are flared out and arched and by all rights you should be saying your prayers, but Vash is the most humble alien-god-thing you’ve never met.

He could conceivably pound you into oblivion, but he’s being so gentle, so _aggravatingly_ delicate.  You’re not breakable, and it’s an insult to your pride to be treated like spun glass.

“ _Harder,_  you shit–fuck me _hard–”  Like I deserve._

And Vash–God help you–kisses your scowling lips all mitigating, slides his arms snugly around your squirming body, and slowly–all too slowly–drags you down the wall, impaling you inch by inch on him.  The forced discipline is having an ardent affect on his cock which is swollen, stiff and _throbbing_  with prolonged need, stretching you wider the deeper he sinks into you.  

Christ on a cracker, how can he be maintain his composure??

Vash, seemingly (eerily) tuned in to your internal dialogue, chuckles against your neck.

“Aren’t priests supposed to be patient?  Isn’t that a virtue, Wolfwood?”

“I’m off the clock.  Now _move_ , goddamn you–”

Vash has the gall to smile at you like you’re the most endearing brand of impertinence, but before you can cuff him upside the head he finally obliges, propelling his hips in brisk upward thrusts that make quick work of your resolve.  He’s striking that sweet spot of yours with the ease of someone packing experience, but you both know it’s beginner’s luck.

Vash is a natural, and it’s no shock that he loves to please, shifting his hips to amplify sensation.  He listens intently to your noises, fine-tuning his movements around them until he’s found the perfect angle to ruthlessly hammer your prostate.  You break out in an instant sweat, hands desperately grabbing the curves of his wings to sync with his rhythm.

“Oh God–sweet Mother of–yes, Tongar _iii_ –”  You didn’t know you could sound so wanton, but here you are moaning like a whore while grinding your neglected cock against the worn leather of his coat.  You don’t care.  You can’t even begin to care about caring.  Self-consciousness is a pointless reservation for mortals, and right now you feel like you’ve transcended your corporeal form.  Nothing else matters but the pulsing of Vash inside you, the hot mouth around your jugular, the big, beautiful appendages that flex and flutter in accordance with his own emotions.

And when Vash comes, they shoot back in a dramatic arc, scattering feathers around the dingy hotel room.  He mewls your name–your actual first name–into your ear, digs his fingers into your back and shudders violently as he slams home one last time.  Your muscles clamp down all at once, temporary paralysis locking you down beneath the riptide of your orgasm.  Your ass is essentially strangling his cock, milking him to the last drop, and somewhere along the way one of each of your hands made it onto your own–his at the base and yours at the head–pumping the last of your sin out over his precious jacket.

The air is suddenly too humid, but it doesn’t bother you; you’re already drowning.  His face eventually swims into your foggy vision, mint-green eyes and a stupid, adorable beauty mark you can’t help but kiss.  You probably won’t be able to walk straight tomorrow, not when you’ve been well, for all intents and purposes, stampeded.

“… ya know, you could start a religion around that cock.”

“Jeez, so sacrilegious.  I should tell God on you.”

“Hallefuckinglujah.”


End file.
